


No Lies Allowed

by Sevent



Series: Geraskier Halloween prompts [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Embarrassed Idiots in Love, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27321808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are enchanted to tell the truth and only the truth. Somehow, they end up faking a relationship. Even worse, they can't seem to stop professing their love for each other. They are understandably embarrassed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Halloween prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967734
Comments: 105
Kudos: 817





	No Lies Allowed

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for Geraskier Halloween! The trope/prompt combination: **magic** \+ **fake relationship**.
> 
> (This is my most ridiculous fanfic yet. That's a warning AND a threat.)

As harvest time comes to a close, Geralt shares a pensive stare with Jaskier. 

They fully expect some kind of disturbance at some point during the day. It’s become almost predictable, and in fact they take turns guessing what sort of awful thing is about to befall them, followed by critical commentary like “No, that’s too unrealistic,” and “You can think of something worse, I bet.” It’s quite fun, actually, to think up the many ridiculous ways in which magic fouls up. Geralt laughs himself to a coughing fit thinking of one where Jaskier gets turned into a goat that can talk. 

What neither of them takes into account is that they would _both_ be affected by the coming enchantment. But in all honesty, what did they expect from venturing into an abandoned villa full of magical artifacts?

It happens to be for an excitable artifact-loving mage who is willing to pay a hefty reward for the witcher to retrieve certain items from the main house, all legally obtained through paperwork. The problem—and this is the part where needing a witcher comes in—is the villa is plagued with wraiths.

Their search happens during the day, because while something bad is bound to happen to them in the house, he’s also not about to court danger like a fool looking for a dare. Wraiths are also more active at night, so a daytime excursion is safer. They encounter two on their way to the gates, and only one inside the dilapidated home. A boring affair in Jaskier’s opinion as he has seen plenty of wraiths in Geralt’s company. The ones they meet don’t even ooze any strange liquids. 

Getting the artifacts is easy from there, and they make sure to carefully pack them away in a suitcase prepared for the mage’s study. Nothing immediately explodes, a victory in Geralt’s book.

What the mage failed to inform them on is that the house in its entirety is an enchanted ‘artifact’—one which bespells any who enter it without permission. 

They discover _that_ little tidbit once they’re done and ready to leave. An engraved stone plaque hangs over the inside of the main entrance. It’s carved with _Hen Llinge,_ Elder words that glow faintly in the interior’s dim lighting. The warning spell written on it is pretty straightforward in its wording. 

_No lies allowed to those who trespass._

Jaskier, with the rusty bits of Elder he knows, picks apart the meaning of the plaque. He looks at himself, pats around his throat, then shrugs.

“Well, it’s not the worst thing that could have happened.”

Geralt sighs in annoyance anyway. “Let’s get out of this place.”

“Of course,” the bard agrees with a flourish of hand gestures, “Let’s try to have _one_ harvest without something going terribly awry? I know the bad only happens when we’re together—but—despite that, I’d like to stay in your company for as long as I’m able as I enjoy it so much more than anyone else's.”

He slaps his lips shut, staring angrily at the space in front of his mouth.

The truth snuck through.

The thing is, he says that _outside_ of the house, and with that, Geralt knows the enchantment is of the kind that stays in effect beyond the premises of the spell grounds. Just great.

Other than that, most of the day goes uneventfully. 

It’s not like they regularly lie to each other either. Jaskier voices his frustrations five times on the way to the overjoyed artificer—and to their disappointment, he has no remedy to their current enchanted predicament. Then, after stopping in a tavern inn, the bard shares three more lively announcements that upset many of the tavern's dwellers. 

It’s actually _less_ than he usually talks, which leads Geralt to believe that the bard really _does_ chatter excessively, of nonsense and the like, for the sake of filling silence. That, or he doesn’t want to accidentally spill a secret so he’s keeping his chatter to a minimum.

Geralt is already brutally honest half the time, and he’s brutally honest now in telling a man selling counterfeit goods that he is a no good con artist taking advantage of people who have never seen the real product he sells. 

Jaskier snorts and backs him up. 

No, nothing’s changed between them. If anything, the enchantment is a mild inconvenience easily ignored.

Except for certain forced answers. Like when Jaskier asks him if he is hungry, Geralt feels compelled to speak the truth instead of brushing the question aside.

The truth being that yes, he is very hungry.

Jaskier squints. “Alright, let’s get something to eat.”

“No.”

“And why ever not?”

“Because,” Geralt grits out, “You’re going to bully the waiter to pay for everything and I don’t want to waste your coin.”

“It’s not a waste. I don’t care.” 

He can’t even argue with that because then he would start revealing too much about why _he_ cares that Jaskier doesn’t care.

For the moment, they share a meal in stunted silence. Jaskier pays. Harvest ends.

The magic is still present the next day. 

So, the witcher thinks, this is how it's going to be.

Two days after last harvest, Jaskier returns from a night of opportune wooing. _Very_ opportune, from what he briefly shares with Geralt—he skips details to spare the privacy of those he bedded. 

It was an amazing evening, a masquerade ball to remember. He hung off of a dozen people’s arms and delighted in their attention. It’s only a shame that Geralt didn’t go with him. Not because he thinks that the witcher would have liked the scene, but because Jaskier didn’t really need to have the eye of so many strangers. He would have been happy to spend the ball in his good friend’s orbit. They have their own sort of fun.

Unfortunately it was not so. Jaskier went alone. And he came out of it with some friends who had _their_ own sort of fun.

Jaskier should have connected the dots between two particular people in his recounting, but he didn’t. He finds out their relation soon enough the next day when an older man, a well-off lord going by his clothes and rings, comes bustling straight to him as he’s in the middle of performing one of his songs.

“You!” 

His lute twangs in his hands. The people who had been clapping along to his song pause to consider the new man.

“You’ve insulted my family,” the lord goes on to say, fury painting his face red. “My daughter? _And_ my son!? I ought to neuter you in the marketstreet!”

 _Oh,_ the man and the woman with the lion masks had been _related._ That’s rather regrettable. Especially for his hide.

“Uh,” Jaskier starts, and he’s just about to make up an excuse when he clamps his lips shut, realizing with growing dread that he can’t lie himself out of this. He can’t lie at all.

“Well, you see sir—”

With no other choice, he breaks into a run.

“Come back here, you son of a whore!”

The bard takes the lord out of the theater house he’d been playing in and spins him across town in a web of narrow passes, zigzag shortcuts and windy backtracking. His maze tactic doesn’t work. It only ends with them both winded.

At the last street corner, a tavern comes into view. It’s golden name sparks recognition in his mind—Geralt should be there, if he’s done with his early morning grave cleanup. Spirits never rest, or something along those lines. 

He risks it and in full view of the red-faced lord, bursts into the tavern. Unmistakable white hair stands out in a corner of the bar. His gamble with luck paid off.

“Geralt!” He turns over a few drinks in his scrambling, to many drunkard’s displeasure. “Geralt save me.”

“What did you—“

Before the witcher can wonder aloud about what new trouble Jaskier’s gotten into, the lord wheezes in through the door, earning everyone’s interest. “Grab...grab that man, I’m chopping off his bits and throwing them into the river.”

One of the gals behind the counter calls out with surprisingly bold familiarity, “Tha’s a bit rude to the fish tha’ swim there, master Budek.”

“Shut up, wench.”

“That _is_ a bit rude, Budek,” Geralt speaks up, standing in front of the cowed bard. “And unnecessary.” 

“And why is that, witcher? What have _you_ to say about a matter most personal? And don’t you interrupt with something snippy again, Clariese.”

Geralt takes a step. The lord inches back instinctively. Well away from the scene, the bar wench who’d first spoken out purses her lips into a scowl. She's got her broom ready for smacking.

“Jaskier,” the witcher begins with a powerful glare, “may have an unbridled prick, but he’s an honest man. A famous troubadour and an equally infamous lover. People like to brag about laying with him as much as they want him to sing at their court.”

Well, it wounds his pride a bit to admit, but Geralt is right. In his life, he’s had to debunk countless false claims made by courtly men and women over him—sometimes out of necessity, as some of those people were married and just using him for an excuse to divorce. He’s been dragged into a few family squabbles that way, on lies that have made themselves truths of his infamy.

But his night with the lion masked devils is no exaggeration. 

Jaskier just—can’t open his mouth to defend himself no matter what, or he’ll ruin Geralt’s misdirection. The price on the line are his family jewels.

“Are you implying, sir witcher, that my son and daughter lied about sleeping with this—harlot?”

Like a slow-moving carriage crash, Jaskier sees the moment Geralt tries to lie. His lips twist with a cut off word, and then suddenly they change course. 

His wide eyed stare is its own silent scream.

“He’s loyal to me.”

The man blinks. Clariese, the bold-spoken woman behind the counter, blinks. The roomful of drunks hushes.

Jaskier covers his face in his hands. If he could melt through the floor, that would be excellent.

“‘Loyal’?” the lord Budek repeats with a strange question in his tone. “I’m...I see. I, ah, should apologize, for my insults to the bard’s character. I would not wish to...offend what you have with him...”

“No you don’t understand,” Geralt attempts, his voice choking up from trying to rein in his unruly mouth, to no avail, “He’s—the best man I’ve ever known. He’s—guh,” Geralt _still_ keeps trying to speak, “He—and I—would meet the end of the world together.”

Through the burning heat blinding Jaskier’s sight, he hisses a snap-quick, “Please stop,” next to Geralt’s ear. 

The witcher clicks his mouth shut.

“Nono, I understand alright, sir witcher.” They are offered a rueful bow. “You won’t be shamed here, in our town. Faithful love is a rare gift! It is to be cherished.”

“But we’re not—”

No one lets them speak the _one_ truth that would break the spreading happy assumptions. Congratulatory drinks are bought in their name. Someone asks how long it’s been since they’ve said their vows. Jaskier thinks it's the Clariese woman.

He stupidly answers, “We—don’t have to,” because they’re not _vowed_ by anything or _to_ anyone. 

Out of nowhere an old couple brings out a large flower wreath and drapes it over his and Geralt’s heads. They’re sat shoulder to shoulder for it to stay put. 

It is the most unusual evening of his life, and that’s saying a lot, considering what they’ve experienced in the years they’ve known each other. He starts to wonder if they haven’t found some kind of clause or loophole in the truth enchantment to let them get away with this much deception.

But seeing as telling the truth would also return the lord’s ire, maybe it’s better they don’t correct anyone. At least until they are out of hot water. Right?

They don’t get the chance to correct anything, as the next time they’re in a tavern together, Jaskier sings _Toss A Coin_ and everyone catches the distinct new “To _My_ Witcher” at the end.

“Is that how it is? He’s your witcher and you’re his bard?”

“Yes,” the bard croaks.

More mortifying is that everyone who hears him just _nods._ They don’t question it. They don’t doubt any of it. It’s just one of those things that makes sense, now that they pay attention to the lyrics of his ballads and piece together what the bard means to _‘really say’._

Impossibly, the eve at the tavern gets more and more outrageous when someone feels the need to ask _Geralt_ what he thinks.

“I’d do anything to keep him safe.”

Jaskier shakes his hands up and down like a madman. “I—would walk his path with him till my feet bleed.”

The fists in Geralt’s lap could crush diamond. “No, I would carry you if your feet start to bleed.”

“I wouldn’t—want to—burden you with my weight.”

“It wouldn’t be a burden at all—”

They continue on for a bit longer, their promises progressing more and more into sentimental territory.

Jaskier can feel his face turning redder and redder, painfully hot and embarrassed that he cannot keep his mouth shut. Though, Geralt's not doing much better himself. His own face looks about ready to pop a blood vessel. He’s so angry— _palpably_ angry—it slightly frightens the crowd. Might have terrified them fully, if every word that spilled from his lips wasn’t nauseatingly sweet in Jaskier's favor.

At some point, the people inside the tavern drift away, attending to their meals and drinks. The short reprieve is welcome. Only, the bard reaches a point where he gives up resisting the enchantment. 

“You’re my best friend. Do you know that?”

He needs Geralt to know that, with the infallibility that the spell provides. He needs for Geralt to understand that when they come out on the other side of this, that no matter what is said and what words other people think to put in their mouths, Jaskier will still think of him as his best friend. That will never change. 

Geralt shields his face. “I do.”

Two weeks, it lasts. Two excruciatingly long weeks, and the damage of the enchantment is so thorough, so irreversible to their persons as to make Jaskier weep. 

The people of the Continent are swooning over the far-spun love tale of the White Wolf and the bard Jaskier. They become renowned for their dedications to one another—dedications that someone writes down into poetry, preserving it in the annals of history. It is downright exhausting.

Yennefer of Vengerberg blinks, the boys of newfound romantic legend begging at her feet for her to remove the enchantment. She only has to hear them talk for three seconds for her to make up her mind with a deep grimace. 

Her fingers twirl in a semi-circle. Purple cascades from them momentarily onto their necks. The air pops.

“There," she claps, "If I have to hear another pining confession I’m going to vomit.”

“Uh, thanks.” The witcher rubs his throat. “We agree never to speak of this?”

Yennefer shrugs. “Fine by me. Oh, and before I forget—my service fee.”

Free from the clutches of magic truth once more, Geralt and Jaskier share a round of ales, their faces haunted by a lifetime’s worth of unending confessions.

Jaskier breaks the silence first. He nurses his mug like warm tea. “I know it was the spell. But part of me still...doesn’t believe any of it.”

“Mhm.”

They take a heavy sip. The alcohol sits uncomfortably in their stomachs.

“Everyone thinks we’re devoted to each other, and it’s not like we’ve even shared a kiss. Isn't that funny, Geralt?”

“Yeah.”

Their mugs empty. Another two are ordered.

After a long moment's consideration, he puts his hand over Geralt’s laying flat over the table. His whole face burns like a sunburn from the south, and should Geralt say anything of substance in response, he fears he’ll miss it as his pulse beats a deafening drum inside his ears.

Geralt looks _intensely_ constipated. But he upturns his hand and keeps it in Jaskier’s loose grip.

They are so absolutely ridiculous, aren’t they?

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, you can find me [@seventfics](https://seventfics.tumblr.com) on tumblr and [@the_sevent](https://twitter.com/the_sevent) on twitter.


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